Shameless Self Promotion – The State of Things

Well, no one else is going to do it. 🙂

So, I have published a chapbook.

As it says in the title, it is not a ‘feel good’ book: don’t expect a love poem. It is a collection focused primarily on current events and the current political climate, most of the poems been seen on this site at one time or another.

I would be honored for you to have a copy (just click the picture) and to receive any feedback you would be willing to give. It is currently only available on Kindle (I will apologize for some formatting issues; converting poetry to Kindle is…unpredictable). If there is demand I will put out some print copies as well.

Thank you to those who follow this blog, and most especially to those who are willing to offer a comment now and then.

Perfect

There are things
which remain perfect,
provided
we always
remember them as they were…
not what they become.

.

A Shadorma for the image at the Mag

Shadows

She learned to tell time by where the shadows
place their stain on the stucco walls.

The baker’s bread will be ready as soon as the first
shapes begin to creep away from the light.
She stands in the open window and greets the day,
taking the time to breathe in the yeasty aromas
before going down for her daily share,
the fresh, crackling crust always reminding her
of the texture of the stucco walls where the shadows
mark the time of day.

When the gray shapes stretch to vertical, tips
extending to touch the street below, it is time to close
the curtains against the advance of midday heat.
Some days she braves crowds of the market,
avoiding familiar faces, on occasion she seeks out
the breezes whispering through the orchard.
Most days though, the darker spaces within her
upstairs room are as far as she will travel.

The old men and young lovers begin to gather
in the cafe when the shades are the sharpest,
mere pencil lines scratched
diagonally across the uneven wall.
She sits in her window sill, watching the wine flow
and the shuffle of dominoes, sees the lovers kiss
and hears the old men cuss. On the days when
the sun is brightest, she allows a smile to escape.

When the shadows fade, retracting to their point of origin,
is when he used to come home to their upstairs room.

.

for Margo Roby’s image prompt, using James Proudfoot’s Sun on a House

Comments on the Sunday News – American Sentences

Yes, mourn the senseless death, but do not pretend he was no criminal.

They release Christian blood into the sea, and we refuse to name them.

Is there no alternative to the hypocrisy of politics?

A wife burns in a Pakistani honor killing; the world ignores.

Political correctness will be the weapon of the final blow.

The soldier mourns his fallen comrades, the veteran mourns his country.

Driving on a Cloudy Day

We drive through the gloom
of low hanging cloud cover,
eyes down, ignoring the dirty
cotton overhead.

There is a moment
when we enter a break
in the clouds — a rip in the clothe
letting light shine through —
and every head lifts,
seeking the source
of newly felt warmth.

Then, just as quickly, we enter
the gloom again,
each head lowers.
There is another shaft
of light ahead.

From a Distance…

I count fourteen vultures
………overhead,

serene and graceful

as they circle,

descend.

Times and Temperatures

In Jerusalem
tempers flare as room-temperature
blood congeals
on a synagogue floor
and permeates the pages
of the Pentateuch.

In Ferguson
reason readies to boil over
into mis-directed righteousness, guilt
or innocence pre-judged
and irrelevant
to the burning to come.

In Atlanta
the temperatures drop,
four horses blow steam
and stamp the frozen grass
of the field where they await
their riders.

Fists will be raised,
tears will be shed,
decisions will be made,
wisdom will not be found,
peace will not be an option,
prayers will not be enough.

Random Fall Haiku

Fall branches hang low
dropping leaves in the current
hues of death float by

a Country in a pocket

my Country I did carry
in my pocket
secure in the confines
of where
I wanted it to be

and
as long as I did not disturb
its place of rest
it was a thing of limitless ambition
unbridled glory
and infinite possibility

but
when I finally thought to check
the well being of my charge
I found a hole in the pocket
where my country
had been

and
all traces of glory
possibility
ambition
fallen beneath my feet
and trampled in
the dust

but
in my other pocket
amidst the dirt collected there
is the seed of a hope
fragile
afraid of holes and those who
trample countries in the dust

Happy Accidents and The Mysteries of Nine

It would not be fair to say she was accident prone,
but we were never surprised when one happened.
The earliest story I remember was apparently
my fault, something about taking my first steps
while she was separating frozen pork chops
with a steak knife.

It was rarely anything serious, no string of limbs
in a cast, not on a first name basis with anyone
at the emergency room, but there was often
a bruise here or there, most of which she never
remembered the cause, and we always made
fun of her for wearing white at a meal. She was
very good at stain removal.

Her first date with my Father was in September,
they were married nine months later
on the twenty-first of June (6-2-1), and were
together, through all of the accidents, for forty-
five years, three months and six days. She died
on the twenty-seventh of September, in the ninth
year of this century.

Some months before as they were walking
the beach, her favorite pastime, she stopped
and made him promise to scatter her ashes
at that exact location. If you are ever in Hilton Head,
South Carolina, be sure to stop by beach marker
number fifty-four and say hello. She is sure to be there early,
never did miss a sunrise.

You may consider the recurring ‘nine’s’ odd,
a mere coincidence or simple chance. Maybe.
It is something I cannot explain, but I refuse
to believe it is an accident.

.

Margo Roby asks for a poem centered around ‘accidents’.
The recurrences of ‘nine’ are factual, and not all are referenced.